


Nighttime Sharpens, Heightens Each Sensation

by ElectricKettle (DaLaRi)



Category: Dimension 20 (Web Series), Pirates of Leviathan
Genre: 4am at Denny's After a Night Shift Energy, Established Relationship, F/F, Multi, Nonbinary Character, Pre-Canon, Sometimes There is Divinity in What You Feel for Your Dearest Friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:48:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26642488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaLaRi/pseuds/ElectricKettle
Summary: The shifts are changing, but the wind is still the same.--There's a moment of quiet in the stillness after a shift sometimes, and it's rare the three of them get to spend it together.
Relationships: Barbarella Sasparilla Gainglynn | Bob/Garthy O'Brien, Barbarella Sasparilla Gainglynn | Bob/Trixie, Barbarella Sasparilla Gainglynn | Bob/Trixie/Garthy O'Brien
Kudos: 13





	Nighttime Sharpens, Heightens Each Sensation

**Author's Note:**

> This was from before we knew Garthy was a full adult n I thought they were the same age as Bob n Trixie (mid-20s ennui is the energy I'm going for). That being said I'm love Garthy n plan to write more stuff for them, esp w the development of (spoilers) Jack/Garthy.

Bob, Garthy, and Trixie sat at one of the tables of the Gold Gardens in the quiet, hushed hours of the morning. The gentle pressure of Leviathan rising and falling on the half-choppy predawn water seemed almost conspiratorial under them, a press and release of familiar movement that, more than even the breeze that swept gently over the deck and the open air areas of the gardens, grounded them after the night-long rush of customers. Trixie was smoking a cigarette, and Garthy eyed it enviously. Trying to quit, they refused to let anyone accommodate them, saying something about needing practice for facing the often-smoky floor of customers. Trixie and Bob had fussed, but eventually, like with many of Garthy’s unnecessarily long-suffering peccadillos, the two of them had let it go. It did help that Trixie’s cigarette burned from the wrong end, a core of infernal power charring it from the inside out. Trixie didn’t do magic, but she didn’t need to. She was magic. It made the smoke go a lot less far, and there was barely a scent of it in the room. The movement of her hand, though, with her close-cropped nails and lavender nail polish drew even Bob’s eyes, and she didn’t smoke. It made her look like a movie star, and with the way Leviathan’s breeze dipped in through the open roof to toy with her hair, she looked so much the picture of what gold gardens was—what it meant to Bob-- that it hurt her heart like a physical thing, how much she cared about her. It must have shown on her face because Garthy shifted slightly, Trixie’s attention still somewhere in the middle distance in the predawn quiet, Garthy’s face soft in the same way, the almost-sad smile they got when their heart rose up in their throat, and Bob rested her ankle against theirs under the table, a warm point of contact, her stocking against their skin. Garthy’s throat clicked, their eyes bright points of gentle incredulity, the kind of adoration in them that settled under Bob’s skin in a way so different than the fluttering rush of her onstage persona. The two of them were lucky, bob knew, to have all three of them off in the witching hour, and awake and un-drained enough to have this moment. The sounds of various gold gardens crew bidding each other good night or welcoming the morning shift’s cleaning crew stirred the still night-gentle air, but it was far enough away from them that their bubble of solitude held.

Eventually, Trixie finished her cigarette. It crumbled fully to ash in her hand, the temperature melting the corner of her pointer finger’s nail polish, and Bob, unthinking, caught her hand to smooth the warped corner back down, a press of magic setting it as smooth and cool as it had been before. The wind tossed Trixie’s hair, and Trixie grinned so softly, so unguardedly at Bob, and Bob (even Bob!) blushed at it. Garthy’s ankle pressed slightly, almost a laugh against her ankle. Instead of kissing her hand as onstage Barbarella might’ve, Bob put Trixie’s hand gently back down on the table, not quite intending to let go, but Trixie caught her before she could decide and twined their fingers and arcing in the wake of that choice, them choosing each other as they always do, always did, the conduit of the three of them held, something divine and arcane and a little bit infernal of _this is right and correct and just and divine_ lit up in a way that it sometimes did with the three of them, and Bob’s pinfeathers prickled in the way that they had at magic like that, and it was a long moment before the wind across their skin soothed it away again, but Trixie and Garthy’s eyes were shining and awed in a way that said they felt it , tears sharp in their throats and at the corners of their eyes and it didn’t need acknowledging with words anyways. Bob just rubbed her thumb across the smooth lavender of Trixie's nail polish and pressed her ankle against Garthy's under the table. The air still smelled like nighttime and she breathed it in deeply. Leviathan bucked and fell, and carried them as it always did, inexorably forwards together. The night stood still, except in the ways that it didn't.

Other people had gods and deities and pantheons and sacred orders. They followed what felt right, what was right to their gods, and honored and served. Bob didn’t want any of that. The world called to her sometimes, and she was going to listen to it sooner rather than later, but she didn’t need a deity to have a light to guide her. She had Trixie and she had Garthy and this, this was everything she needed. Whatever happened, whatever shape her inevitable adventure would take, she would have them like music rising in her chest wherever she carried them. She was the pearl of the gold gardens, yes, but they were the chain and the clasp that kept her shining at its throat. And however brilliantly she shone, she knew that, when the glitter and the remnants of prestidigitation were tracked across the stage and it was almost-dawn again, they'd be as happy to see her, Bob, as any Barbarella fan who existed under the sun. And that, to her, felt good and right and true.

**Author's Note:**

> no one on Jane Wren's green earth can stop me from making phantom of the opera references in my work if i want


End file.
